Logs:N'rov's Collection
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| RL Date: 28 December, 2015 |
| Who: A'sran, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov recruits A'sran. |
| Where: Weyrleader's Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 9, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ka'ge/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions |
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| No rain, but it's definitely autumn with those leaden skies; when A'sran gets past the weyrwomen's ledges and up to Vhaeryth's, there's a curtain-muffled yell of, "Yeah, come in!" despite the bronze soaking up Zaisavyth and the sands' heat instead of being anywhere near his ledge. Then N'rov's pulling that curtain aside, gesturing for the other rider to enter; "Did you ever see this place when Bijedth had it? I swear, it's not the same without his straps hanging here all fancy." The weyrleader's weyr could be a museum for the amount of amazement and wonder that muddles the younger bronzerider's face when he saunters in, fingers tucked neatly in his trouser pockets. "I never had the honor. I tried.. when I was younger, hardly out of my first straps, but.." A'sran's grin turns sheepish, as he ducks past the curtain and inward on N'rov's invitation. "We had one too many and stunk of rum. I wonder how anyone was surprised when we ended up in the wrong weyr." N'rov's got to smirk at that; "Hattie's? And she left you alive?" There's respect there for the older woman, off with the prior-but-one occupant of this ledge. While he's at it, leading the way in, "I left the mirrors for now. There's a mural behind that but it'd need patching," and his shrug says he can't be bothered yet. Further in, more practical cloth slipcovers the chairs, as well as the chaise that seems to have survived, tucked into a corner to make room for the table; another curtain guards the inner room. At that table, though, N'rov turns back to give A'sran a long look, one leavened by a brief flash of smile. "Glad you got through the plague all right. I remember who else helped out, that was able to," and those who didn't. "I think we'll all be remembering that time a little too well. How attached to Carnelian are you, Ast?" "As you see me, whole and all." A'sran is not missing a single finger, which only speaks to Hattie's forgiveness, or his ability to get out of a sticky situation by the skin of his teeth. "It could use a piece of distinction.. something to make it yours, instead of.. borrowed." His avid gaze takes in the inner portion of the weyr while N'rov talks, and, once he has taken his fill, he grins boyishly. "I am more glad than you. It made me question my morality. I never gave it a lot of thought before then," is a sobering revelation. "Carnelian? I like my wing. They are not hard asses like Flint, or have such a long history of.. interesting stories, as Hematite does. I have not known any other wing since I graduated." N'rov's, "Distinction," drawls right over the word, with interest and a certain amount of amused doubt; he doesn't dispute the description of Hematite, only inclines his head. But: "You thirsty? I don't recall if you like cider," but he's turned to rattle amongst the shelves set into the wall. "And tell me what you mean, this morality thing." One of the covered chairs gets a nudged from an interested boot, and his red-blonde curls flop on his head when he jerks his head to the side. "It would be impolite to reject your offer of cider, thus I have to accept it," A'sran counters, completely serious (ok, not at all serious). "Did I say morality? I meant mortality. I saw enough death to make me question my previous life choices, question what makes it all worthwhile."
"Beer, cider, shit." A'sran contemplates those choices longer than he should, leaning a hip against the chair nearest and folding his arms over his open flight jacket. "Cider works to start, but if you plan to keep me here all night I have expectations of stronger fare." His grin, and dimples, evidence his continued lack of seriousness. "I keep in touch with my family. I appreciate my wingmates, my weyr, and good company, while I can. It does me little good to carry my convictions on my shoulders until I die." It starts out a smirk, then becomes a low chuckle. "Deal." N'rov gestures with the bottle for A'sran to take a seat, then pours before taking his own nearby. "Well enough. I'd like to hear more about those convictions, though, unless you've tossed them by the wayside. I'd like you to ride for my wing," he pauses to drink, "whichever that turns out to be." An easy acquiescence from the weyrleader has A'sran sinking down in that chair, long legs stretched to take up the most room given all of that extra space. "I tossed a good deal of them when I moved here and then when I Impressed Leczuth, but they were the simple kinds most Holdbred face," he begins, but stops and looks stumped. "You want me in your wing? I would be honored, sir." His glibness cannot save him from the slip. N'rov, familiar with most of those, has a wry expression; then, then he doesn't bother to hide his grin. His is no loose-limbed sprawl, not today or at least not right now, instead sitting forward with focus for all that his voice is that just-as-characteristic drawl. "We'll do that, then. I'm collecting a few, here and there, mostly not from Hematite lest we take over." Unused to that sort of centered focus or entirely undaunted by it, another one of A'sran's wide grins takes hold and lightens his expression. "I have never heard it called collecting riders for a wing, but that is what it is. It is good that you are trying to make your mark. N'muir was weyrleader for a long, long time," is fearfully enigmatic. "Any names I would know?" "Longer than I've been a rider," N'rov says dryly and, noting A'sran's reaction, eases up a notch. "Ka'ge, likely," but then he lists several others, none of them bronzeriders but all of them with energy. "What's your favorite part of riding? Not just 'I have a dragon who is amazing and I get to fly places,' but the actual work. Do you like drilling, sweeps, what?" Copious amounts of head-bobbing, in line with an approving response, go on before he notes with actual enthusiasm: "All good choices." A'sran does not feign surprise with the continued questioning -- does he know N'rov!? -- and happily speaks in conversational tones, impervious to what many would consider expectations. "I came to be a candidate because I wanted the purpose. It is one thing," he says, blue eyes a shade more serious than his overall expression, "to be born great, another to work for it.. or so I read in a harper's manual somewhere. I see the practicality in keeping the traditions, without that always being the case. Drills, sweeps, comradery.. is it what we are here for?" He obviously thinks it is not for the hot chicks! ..or, maybe. That harper's manual has N'rov fighting down what's part smirk, part half-surprised and all too open grin; he's listening with that same genuine interest from before, drinking now and again along the way. "Save Pern, all of that," he says, not entirely facetious. "I went into it wanting to go places in the literal sense: to travel, to get out. But that was before Vhaeryth, before everything." Too much sentiment; his tone changes back to conversational. "You're out of Greystones, your family escaped the plague all right?" "Save Pern," is the younger bronzerider's agreement, glass summarily lifted and all in toast to their mother planet, etc. "I have to confess traveling.. getting around, on my own, not on foot, was a lure at the time, but I thought I bought into the romanticism of it all too. We would be dragonriders, scourge to Threadfall and saviors of all the pretty women across Pern," comes with a wink.. or an eye twitch; no, that is definitely a wink. "Greystones was mostly untouched by the plague as was the majority of the Benden area. I believe my mother was inconvenienced once, and came out alright." His smile comes all too easily again. N'rov has to grin, this time, no matter how twitchy that wink might be. Then, "Glad to hear it. I didn't want to run the risk that it was, say, your twin sister who was the only one who caught it and died horribly," says the man whose family members, many of them, did. He doesn't let himself look weary for more than a moment, just says, "I hope we'll get some of our people back to more of what they were. Rehabilitation can take time, they tell me, but they can't guarantee a thing." Everything about the plague, talk and conjecture, is sobering, still. "Shells, no. I doubt my mother could have handled too of us." A'sran's light comment is a little less, and he looks down at his glass in silent repose before glancing up at the weyrleader. "Igen had a bad bout of illness a couple turns ago. It took them months, and that was not on a grand scale such as this. It needs nothing else to put strain on its already consistently fragile construct. Togetherness," he finishes, linking his fingers together around his glass in a physical demonstration. "Indeed." N'rov studies him for a moment, then exhales. "So. A'sran. Speaking of things taking time: I'd like to keep you riding with Carnelian for the next couple of sevens, at least. But in the meantime, I'll have tasks for you on the side; I've already cleared the way with your wingleader." Acting wingleader; soon to be ex-wingleader. "Today's message goes to Healer; tomorrow, check in after breakfast and wear good leathers, nothing fancy but something that makes you look like a fine upstanding rider... which," a briefer flash of grin, "shouldn't be hard." Their role reversal has A'sran leaning forward and focusing on the other bronzerider independently, staving off any observations he has until the end. "How can I tell the Weyrleader no?" He only half-smiles this time, but gives an appreciative nod of his head. "I will see it done, trappings and all. Do you expect objections? Or are we to attend a fancy dress party?" "Thank you," said Weyrleader says, somewhat wryly. "I don't expect objections, no. It's just," he reaches to rub the back of his neck, "Vhaeryth... doesn't like to leave Zaisavyth, and the clutch, except for when the mood hits and he's got to work off some steam. It doesn't help when I remember back to those eggs that got stolen," and he shares a rueful half-smile of his own. "There are some things I must do myself, but others that I'd like to make sure get done by someone I can count on, and who doesn't flap his yap all over the Weyr. Without fancy dress; I wouldn't put you through that." "I cannot comprehend how tedious that must be," says the bronzerider whose dragon has never successfully caught a gold and necessitated those types of drastic measures, and he means it. "I can promise that unless they swear to cut off one of my fingers -- I need those, you see, I cannot be quite as good at cards or drinking without all ten -- I will have the utmost discretion. I doubt," A'sran sets down his glass, "anyone will think it strange. I come and go." It is meant to be an assurance, though whether it is or not.. "At your leisure." N'rov nods with great solemnity at this, and warns, "Don't let them cut off any toes either. I hear it sets off the balance worse than you'd think." Then he can grin, but does say, "Discretion is good, but you don't have to fumble for a fake reason either," look, he's not asking A'sran to lie! Yet, "If anyone asks, you're on an errand for me, end of story. I'd say go ahead and make up something outrageous, but someone might believe it, and then where would we be. Now," he'll have some questions for A'sran, about wingmates and other riders and the like, and invite A'sran to ask questions too; the cider's not all gone yet. |
Comments
Kaleidoscope (09:28, 30 December 2015 (PST)) said...
Fingers and toes, indeed. XD I really enjoyed seeing this exchange, both in seeing how N'rov recruits and what A'sran enjoys as a rider. Fun dynamic to read!
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